The Secret Lives of Fortunate Wives
by jazwriter
Summary: This is in response to a challenge to create a story with this title. I was also asked at the Janeway/7 Faction community to create a story using the same style found in two of my STV stories called I Know You and You Know Me. Add in the Groundhog Day's repeating day idea and shazam! Please note it is poetic, meaning not much dialogue. REPOST from LJ! MP/AS
1. Chapter 1

**The Secret Lives of Fortunate Wives**

Title: The Secret Lives of Fortunate Wives

Author: JAZWriter/JAZWriter13

Pairing: Miranda/Andy

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or situations represented through _The Devil Wears Prada_ or _Groundhog Day_. Nor am I receiving any monies through this story. Any infringement is unintentional.

Rating: R but nothing too graphic

Special Thanks goes to law-nerd, the best beta ever! Besides being quick, she has a gift for zoning in to the areas where I had trouble and providing me with helpful suggestions. She makes my stories better. You should thank her. Really.

Author's Note: This is in response to the **Mid-January Challenge** presented by i_heart_cuddy to create a story based on the title I was given in January 2010.

What a great challenge! I was also asked by a Janeway/Seven Faction board community member—elentarisil—to create a story using the same style found in two stories I created and posted for that board. Those two STV stories are called **I Know You** and its companion piece, **You Know Me**. And, I had been mulling over the idea of creating a Mirandy fanfic based on the idea of the movie **Groundhog Day**.

Ummm, yeah. So, here it is! Hope you enjoy. Let me know.

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Part 1

Sometimes it doesn't pay to get up. I know, I know. You have to get up, at least during the work week. Particularly when you have a job to do. Particularly when that job is to cover the news—because the news doesn't sleep. So, neither can you. Right? But the thing is, sometimes the day starts out bad and gets infinitely worse. Like, unbelievably worse. Like, how the hell could this be real worse. So, the little things that happened today such as stubbing my toe and wearing two different colored shoes with two different heels and staining my skirt with that damn piping-hot coffee I had ordered in remembrance of that certain white-haired editor, She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, and getting hit by a bicycle messenger, those events made me wish I had rolled over and stayed in bed. Because here's the truth: sometimes it doesn't pay to get up.

Bed is infinitely more seductive when beckoning me with a beautiful dream. Certainly better than what my morning has been offering me. Shaking my head to clear the confusion after a jarring impact throws me to the curb, I look up at the cyclist. He apologizes, sneers, and rides off. Well, it isn't like I am unconscious. Just scraped and bruised. I push myself up from the pavement, receiving a helping hand as I grab my Marc Jacobs bag. Luckily nothing has escaped its confines. Looking to my savior, I freeze in shock. Miranda, my Miranda, is scorching me with an all-encompassing glance from my mismatched heels to snow-crusted head. Gosh, she looks just like in that dream I had last night. Attractive, powerful, and compelling. Unlike my dream, she also appears angry. Evidently, angry at me for having the nerve to be plowed into by a bicycle. Hmm. That's the difference between dreams and reality and the reason I should have hit the alarm buzzer several more times. Bed is infinitely more seductive when beckoning me with a beautiful dream.

The confusion I am feeling only deepens. I look at Miranda, her hand, my arm. Miranda, hand, arm—a loop I cannot seem to stop. I am sure I have a rather bewildered or befuddled or down-right "am I unconscious and not realizing it?" look on my face since the editor deigns to say, "Did you smack your little head on the pavement?" She does know I had just fallen down, right? Why is her hand still gripping my arm? Why is she helping me? Why is she appearing concerned and amused and just a little bit happy to see me? The confusion I am feeling only deepens.

I raise my hand futilely. Checking my head, I feel a bump forming but no blood. Phew. No time for hospitals. I have to get to work. As soon as Miranda lets go of my arm. "I'm okay. Thank you." I choose to believe she cares about my welfare. Life is better that way. Looking around I confirm that I am not in front of Miranda's office building, her home, or anywhere else I would normally see her. Nope, just on a busy New York sidewalk about five minutes away from the _Mirror_. I return my gaze to Miranda while wondering what I should do. She doesn't like idle conversation or even any type of conversation. We can't really just stare at each other all day, not that I would mind. Wouldn't that just cause her to attack, like when looking into any carnivorous animal's eyes? The decision is taken from me when the editor drops her hand and with a nod enters her car. I don't want her to go. I raise my hand futilely.

I wonder whether this day could become any weirder directly before it does. I should know by now. Over the years I have chastised myself numerous times for daring the Universe to make my day even more incomprehensible than it was. It's like walking up the stairs, not realizing you've reached the top, and stepping into air. The result is rather jarring. What the hell was I thinking? Why wasn't I looking? Why was I daring my reality to twist itself just a bit more and then becoming surprised when my challenge was accepted? Stupid little girl. Insipid, thoughtless child. Now I was channeling Miranda's insults in my mind. But, really, had I learned nothing? As I look toward heaven wondering whether my day can become any more bizarre, I hear my name called impatiently. That's when I notice Miranda's car is still idling by the curb, and the older woman is watching me through the half-opened window. "By all means move at a glacial pace. You know how that thrills me." I jump forward, sliding into the car's confines purely by instinct. I wonder whether this day could become any weirder directly before it does.

Pinching myself, I squelch the resulting squeak. What world have I landed in? How is it I am sitting in Miranda's car as we travel to some unknown destination? Why is she staring at me as if I am the best steak she has ever seen and is ready to devour it—me? I swallow reflexively. She smiles like the cat to the canary. Surreal. Impossible. Miranda seems to…desire…me. Me. "Where are we going?" I ask just to get her hot eyes off my breasts. Not that I mind all that much, but she is making the few brain cells still working roll over, showing their tender bellies in supplication. Her answer echoes through my mind, captivating me. I must be dreaming. There is no other explanation. What can I do to wake myself up? Pinching myself, I squelch the resulting squeak.

Over the past year I have seen Miranda often. Entering or exiting Elias-Clarke, designer showrooms, fancy soirees, and high-profile benefits, it wasn't hard to get my Miranda fix. At night I exchanged my harsh, lonely reality for my dream—Miranda's complete, affectionate attention. These dreams were not always sexual, although I awoke one morning to the feeling of her thumb and forefinger pinching my clitoris. I throbbed for quite some time while attempting to blink away that glorious sensation. Nevertheless, in most of my dreams we share a comfortable, trusting bond. In the beginning of one dream we sat across from each chatting (chatting!) amiably; by the end of our dreamy day we sat side-by-side holding hands as we confided our deepest secrets. The bond was palpable. Whether asleep or roaming New York trying to track down the latest lead, I live for Miranda's presence even as I fear her rejection. Because I fear that at some point she will confront my desertion during her time of need. At some point she will take notice of me and demand an explanation. Over the past year I have seen Miranda often.

Memories dull as time passes. In that way, memories and dreams are very similar. They are vivid when first experienced but fade even as we review them over and over again. Senses, so essential at the time, can no longer feed the mind with incoming information, and time erodes the details of delicious moments. Like the way Miranda pronounces my name. How could I have forgotten that particular inflection, that lingual caress, that unique pronunciation? Oh, how I'd missed that, how I'd missed her! Gazing into ice-blue eyes, I realize how much I'd given up, who I'd given up, all under the guise of integrity. Her voice and her smell, her gaze and her aura—I'd traded them in for a colorless, senseless life. Although I utilize some hard-earned lessons nowadays, I'd blocked out the impetus of them all—Miranda. All to protect myself. And when finally I felt strong enough to call forth my _Runway_ experiences, I had found them to be mere shadows bereft of the details needed to taste those moments fully. I felt robbed of something precious, something I needed. Someone I needed. My life is pale, my past bland. Memories dull as time passes.

She reaches for my hand and watches me keenly. I am trying to keep up as I had always attempted while in her employ. I am having just as much trouble as I have always had. Seated on Miranda's lounge listening to her incredible words, I feel sensation sweeping me away. No time to call for help, no time to take a deep breath, I drown without fight, succumbing to my fate. She has missed me, she tells me. For a long time the editor chose not to recognize why she felt so lost, so empty, so forlorn. Eventually, though, she accepted the truth. She wants me near her. She needs me back in her life. I pull my hand away, fearing what I have to say will anger the older woman. Miranda will have none of that. She reaches for my hand and watches me keenly.

The air shivers with her passionate words. I shift away, afraid to voice my concerns. I am insecure; can't she understand? Miranda is so far removed from me, even while she professes her affection. How can I hope to accept what she offers when I have so little to trade? She and I live in different worlds. I cannot hope to be her equal. If I tried to join her on her pedestal, I'd surely fall off as I bowed before her. The idea of romance, of allowing herself to be vulnerable may seem exciting and different and freeing, but one day too soon she will question herself. She will wonder what possessed her to seduce me with her promises. She will want to end what she has begun, and I will be left struggling to breathe each moment without her. Miranda's ardor is thrilling but out of character. Perhaps she has seduced herself with such visions. But we all must awaken from our dreams. We all must adhere to our self-imposed constraints. We all must acknowledge what is best for ourselves. I want so much to accept her offer. Yet I fear to do so will become my destruction. The air shivers with her passionate words.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

Fear fills darkened eyes. She does not believe me. How could I expect otherwise? I had treated the younger woman in a cavalier fashion, not understanding the monumental mistake I was making. I had pretended she was like all my other assistants. She wasn't. She had invaded my mind with conflicting thoughts, invaded my heart with unfulfilled desires. After she walked away, after I saw her empty desk, after no one could do what she had done so easily, I knew. I had made the worst mistake in my life. I had acted as if she were expendable. I had pushed her away. I had let her go. And I had failed to take action even after I had finally admitted the truth to myself. I need her. I want her. I love her. However, I can see that she does not believe my words. I can see her pulling away, hoping to protect herself, afraid I am playing some twisted game. I can see my one chance for happiness slipping through my fingers as surely as her fingers slip away from my grasp. Fear fills darkened eyes.

This day is different from all other days. I knew when I awoke that change was in the air. I began my ablutions as I normally do. Picked my ensemble with a critical eye. Kissed my darlings goodbye and gathered my thoughts as Roy drove me to work—just as I did nearly every day. Yet something pulled at my mind. Something demanded my attention. Something refused to let me concentrate on my work, to ignore the emptiness of my life, to hide from my most burning desires, those desires I visit while asleep. As if a small being was pulling at my sleeve, so I felt the persistent tug forcing me to focus on the moment. I looked around the interior of the car. All seemed as it always did. I looked toward Roy and the route we traveled. Still all seemed in place. Then I looked out my window and saw a bicycle colliding with a dark-haired woman, a person whose appearance resounded in my heart louder than any bell. Andrea. My Andrea. Clearly my instincts were working well. This day is different from all other days.

Fate is a curious concept. I have never believed in it. When I want an event to occur, I take action to make it happen. I do not rest on my laurels waiting for life to do what I wish. Nor do I second guess my life because I know I have created it. Every bit. Even the less desirable aspects. I know the costs of my ambitions. If, in the dead of night when my body begs me to stop listening to my mind and to listen to my heart, I callously ignore its pleas; that is the choice I make time and again. I act as I must to live the life I have envisioned. Then Andrea came into my life and ripped it apart one smile at a time. When I finally began to accept her presence, she left. And ripped the rest of my ignorance away. Was she meant to remain in my life? Was she meant to change me in such a fundamental way? Was she meant to change my vision, destroy my veil, rewrite my life's script? I was afraid to know. I let her go. Then she returned, and I knew the moment my eyes feasted on the girl I could no longer live as I always had. All had changed, thanks to her. Fate is a curious concept.

Power shifts so easily when it comes to matters of the heart. I've heard all the jokes over the years about my missing, blackened, shriveled, hollow heart. I didn't care because they were all partly true. I never risked my heart; I kept it out of all my dealings. Or I hardened it against the necessary actions I had to take to be a successful business woman. Yet when I saw Andrea's tussled chocolate locks, dirt-streaked blouse, coffee-stained skirt, mismatched shoes and shocked visage, I felt my heart leap. Had she ever looked lovelier? It brought back fond memories of when the hapless girl had first intruded upon my lackluster life, the life I had controlled with an iron fist. She had turned my colorless life into a rainbow of feeling. Immediately, I called her boss to tell him she had suffered an accident—a hit and run. If he chose to believe it was by a car, who was I to correct him? I told him Andrea would be unable to work today. What? I didn't lie. I merely chose my words carefully. Then I summoned her into my car, into my home, into my heart. I tried to hand that barely used heart over to Andrea, but she recoiled skittishly, unable to believe my willingness to relinquish control—or was it that she believed this to not be a worthy gift? Is the idea so repulsive? Power shifts so easily when it comes to matters of the heart.

We sit on the lounge as I struggle to reach the girl. Why is this so difficult? She has seen cracks in my armor before. She has seen me at some of my most vulnerable moments. Why is this so hard to accept? I need Andrea. What words should I say, how can I convince her to remain in my life, to allow me to become a part of hers? I will grovel at the girl's feet, throw myself on her mercy, anything—even begging is not too high a price if it will prevent her from walking away again. Andrea navigates her world by her heart's promptings—how can I convince hers that she is safe with me? Can it not whisper that perhaps she might find happiness in my arms? Why does she look so sad? Why is she telling me this cannot be? That she is not good enough? I don't want to hear such discouraging words. We sit on the lounge as I struggle to reach the girl.

Nothing more can be said this day. I dismiss Andrea with tears fighting to spill over. I refuse to compound my humiliation by releasing them. There will be time enough when she has left. Again. I tried. I failed. She will not have me, will not even contemplate it. I shake my head in denial. Am I so hard to love? How ironic that I have broken so many hearts, ruined so many lives, only to be broken by her, a person with so much love to give. Just not to me. Pressing a trembling hand to my lips, I hold back a sob. I visualize the walls resurrecting around my ruined heart. Never again shall anyone threaten it. I have no more hope of a joyful life. No more hope of a loving life. No more hope of a worthwhile life. But I have my work. I have my children. And I have my loneliness within bustling, noisy rooms. Nothing more can be said this day.

What happened to dreams coming true? Over the past year Andrea was much more approachable in dreams. She did not care that I had treated her so poorly. She did not remind me of my ruthlessness when conducting business. She did not resent my inability to express my emotions or my struggle with revealing my vulnerability or my challenge with allowing her to see who I truly am. She gave us the luxury of time to spend together. We would sit and talk about whatever crossed our minds, trading places as the hours passed, pacing and gesticulating and laughing and debating. We never worried that the wrong word or action would break us apart. It didn't matter that we felt so new together, that we had just begun to explore this facet of our blooming relationship. In many ways it felt as if we had been acting out these motions together for a lifetime. In one dream she leaned against my propped knees on the floor at the end of the day, a blanket over my knees, her back strong and reassuring. We watched a television program reflecting a car navigating a hilly area. As the car turned, so did we. My knees opened as I fought for balance and sweet Andrea fell into my body. Instead of allowing her to pull away, I placed my hand on her shoulder, now leaning against my chest. Her hand covered mine, and we remained that way. I felt fulfilled. Doesn't she understand I would sit on the floor with her? What happened to dreams coming true?

The best conversations occur in the mind. This is why I am conservative with my words. It doesn't matter how well thought out an imagined scenario is, reality never compares. In my mind, Andrea's face lights with joy when I confess how I've missed her, not guilt. In my mind, Andrea's face lights with acceptance when I confess how I need her, not doubt. In my mind, Andrea's face lights with desire when I confess how I want her, not fear. It chills my heart because I don't know how to soothe her fears, put to rest her doubts, or to assuage her guilt. I have no script since she is not following the one I have written for her. It seems I am never able to anticipate my dear Andrea's reactions. Not even after thinking of her so very often. This conversation must end so that I may gather my wits, but we shall share another one soon. A better one, more in keeping with those I have imagined. The best conversations occur in the mind.

Tomorrow is another chance to browbeat fate. I refuse to give up my dream of sharing a life with Andrea. She has been a part of my life since the day we met. I was foolish to ignore her hold on me, her power over me, her affect on me. She may feel we have no future, but I will convince her of the truth. We are destined to be together; I am taking action to make it so. Andrea is young and dramatic, but I am mature and pragmatic. I will answer each of her fears through word and action. My failing today was not demonstrating my feelings, relying solely on ineffectual words. I smile as I realize my course is set, my mind is clear, my heart is thrumming. I will bypass her fears with love, counter each emotional excuse with a logical solution, and bend this reality to my will. Tomorrow is another chance to browbeat fate.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

Some days are hard to face. Even as I get up this morning, I feel the strong urge to stay in bed. After yesterday's debacle, what's the point? I turned Miranda away, all because I fear I am not good enough for her. I thought it would be better to never feel her embrace or feel her love than to experience a life with the older woman and have it ripped away someday. I took the coward's route, refusing her before she eventually refused me. And she would throw my love away at some point. Why wouldn't she? What do I have to offer? Such knowledge should have hardened my heart and reaffirmed my decision. However, after a night full of restless dreams and shattered blue eyes, I am regretting my unwillingness to make the leap. There is the rub. Miranda, accused of having no emotions, revealed them all to me, and I acted as if I had none. I am mortified by my behavior. Some days are hard to face.

Today I will fix yesterday's mistakes. Standing on the sidewalk just about to cross the street, I can't help thinking about the bicyclist who hit me yesterday. Looking to my left, I see the same guy bearing down on me. Unbelievable! I jump back just in time while yelling out my displeasure. I swear he must look for people to ram. Watching him whiz down the street, I am not surprised to see him hit an older man. Returning my gaze toward the street, I see a familiar silver Mercedes passing by and imagine Miranda is staring back at me. That would be too coincidental, though. I shake my head at my fanciful thoughts. At least they serve to remind me of my mission. I must apologize to the editor and beg for a chance to be a part of her life. Yesterday I was foolish and weak. Today I will show her why she offered me her heart. Today I will fix yesterday's mistakes.

An ordinary day can morph into an unusual reality. Crossing the street, I turn left to walk the last block to work. As I approach I notice another silver Mercedes in front of the _Mirror_, mocking me. I slow to a stop as Miranda, sexy in a navy blue power suit—Valentino—steps out of the car. Isn't that the same power suit she wore yesterday? In all the time I've known her, I've never seen the fashion icon wear the exact same ensemble. I am flabbergasted. Why is she here? I had imagined that I would have to visit Miranda in her office today after hurtling past security and Emily. Instead she is staring at me with prowling eyes. Turning without a word, she reenters the car. I stare after her, wondering what has just occurred. Perhaps I would have to visit her at work after all. Hearing my name voiced impatiently, I focus on Miranda's face through the half-opened window. "By all means move at a glacial pace. You know how that thrills me." Right. I jump into the car. We leave. An ordinary day can morph into an unusual reality.

The perfect moment can happen without any warning. I am feeling pretty confused by the time we sit in Miranda's study. Her eyes devour me as I attempt to gather the nerve to apologize for my behavior yesterday. I can't understand why she is not more upset with me. "I'm sorry," I begin as I take her hand in mine. "I wasn't prepared yesterday. I was afraid, and I was stupid." I look into blue eyes clouding with confusion and surprise. "If you'll have me, I'd like to try." Silence shrouds us as I continue to look at the older woman. She seems frozen. Perhaps action will provoke a more positive reaction. I lean forward and brush my lips against hers. She gasps. I pull back to gauge her reaction. Miranda's response is to lean forward and capture my mouth. I groan, she groans, we both groan together. What a kiss! Our lips slide together as if we've been kissing for years. I concentrate on the texture of her lips, loving their softness. Our kiss maintains a gentle pressure, as if we are unable to quite believe it is occurring and are afraid to make any sudden moves to break the moment. When we finally part, I cannot think. At all. It takes a moment to focus on her breathless question. What wasn't I prepared for yesterday? How can she ask me that? I stare at the older woman trying to fathom what the hell is happening. "I, you told me you wanted to be with me. That you needed me in your life." I become insulted by her incredulous laugh. How can she deny that conversation? I jump up. I have to get away from this, from her scorn. Is this some kind of game for her? I leave even as I hear her calling my name. It isn't until much later that I realize why she did not remember a conversation that changed my life. Nor that kiss, that simple touch, which changed my life. The perfect moment can happen without any warning.

I lie in bed considering my options. The alarm clock lies on the floor, buzzing. I reach down to turn it off. Staring at the water stain on the ceiling, I wonder what today will bring. Thirty-four days ago Miranda offered me her heart, and I refused. Thirty-three days ago I offered mine to her, and she acted as if she had not begun that conversation the day before, even laughing at the thought. Since then I have awakened to a mad, mad world. Or rather, a crazy, crazy day. Yes. One day. Over and over. Not realizing the calendar had rewound itself the third time The Day occurred, I had been awakened by my current boss wondering whether I was planning on coming to work. I got there late. I spent the day worrying about what to do about Miranda. I tried to contact her, but Emily would not put me through, and I hung up when I heard the voicemail message. She never checks it, anyway. I worked late that night—too late to stop by her workplace or house. But I didn't know I was reliving the same day as when she had made her confession to me. Not yet. It wasn't until the fourth time The Day repeated when a call from my boss confounded me. He wanted to know whether I could cover a restaurant opening that evening and if so to get the information from Joe. That restaurant had opened three days prior. I knew because I'd been hinting at how much I'd like to cover the story. As I rushed down the street wondering whether I had mistaken the date, I glanced at a newsstand, slowing when I recognized the headlines. I'd seen them before. It kind of begged the question: why didn't he call me on the other three days to cover the restaurant opening? What had changed, besides myself? The rest of that day played out pretty much as it had the day before, which was actually the same day. And that day I realized I needed to strategize. So, I came up with the plan I have been executing ever since with varying levels of success. I lie in bed considering my options.

Good plans take time to implement. I had rushed to work the fifth, sixth, and seventh times I relived The Day and been run over by the maniac messenger each time. You'd think I would have learned more quickly, particularly since it hurt on each occasion. I had other matters on my mind. Particularly one matter—Miranda. She showed up each time. Unfortunately our interactions at her townhouse resulted with some type of misunderstanding, and she never confessed her feelings to me. My simple plan to accept her declarations with more aplomb than a scared puppy had to be revised. In order to determine the best way to navigate through The Day, I decided to learn more about Miranda the woman instead of Miranda the fashion icon. Now I ask questions, watch closely, and take notice: I am getting ready for her. I will not waste this strange opportunity I have been presented to learn about her, spend time with her, and to hear her declaration when she is ready. I intend to respond in kind. Recognizing that this repeated day is somehow connected to a shared future, I have searched my heart and found it aching for Miranda. Somehow, I have been granted another chance. Okay, several chances. Thankfully, I have been allowed to make mistakes that will not harm our future. I am learning and getting ready for a life with this remarkable woman. Good plans take time to implement.

I was blind while watching her every move. I may have become a good assistant, but I hardly knew Miranda at all. Now I watch her as a future lover. Now when I listen to the melodious tone of her voice, I do not search for clues of displeasure. Now I listen for affection, longing, and passion. That combined with the look in her eyes and the way she behaves: all combine to give me hope. Besides observing, I ask seemingly innocuous questions about her week, her work, her children, her favorite restaurant, her favorite flower, and her favorite book. These and other questions give me a peek into her mind and heart. I am realizing how much I have to learn, and I am excited by the prospect of finding out more. While shadowing her at _Runway_ I had seen little of the woman, entirely overwhelmed by her professional persona. I was blind while watching her every move.

Sometimes it takes me awhile to get a clue. I look around and see that damn cyclist coming my way. I step back onto the sidewalk just in time. My gaze follows him as he hits an older man. The same older man. I swear I can hear the Twilight Zone theme song playing as I turn the corner and see a silver Mercedes in front of the _Mirror_. This day still surprises me as little details change minutely. More amazingly, some aspects play out the same way. Like seeing Miranda as long as I am traveling to work on time. Gratefully, I watch as a perfectly toned leg appears first followed by the gorgeous older woman in a power suit. Miranda. Navy. Valentino. I won't be making it to work today. I exhale tremulously. And so it begins. Again. Sometimes it takes me awhile to get a clue.

I fear I must be dreaming. I stare at Miranda. She stares at me. She turns and reenters her car. I know what happens next. I hear her whispery voice, "…thrills me." Yeah. Got it. I get in the car. My head is whirling. Will today be the day we are able to get it right? How is this happening to me? Will it continue to occur until we get ourselves sorted out? Is that what this is all about? We enter her house silently, and I follow the editor into the study. Miranda seems reservedly happy to see me. When she takes my hand, I begin to tremble. She is going to confess her feelings. I give myself a mental high-five. I let her. I listen. I lean in. This kiss is better than the one we shared thirty-three days ago. She is not stunned or puzzled this time. I brush my lips against hers gently once more, then pull back slowly to look into Miranda's eyes. I see joy and passion shining through those blue eyes. She leans forward and captures my mouth as a hand comes to rest behind my head, tilting it to the angle she desires. Miranda holds me close as she moves her lips, and I hear her growl from deep within her throat. I feel Miranda's tongue sweeping at my closed lips, and I groan. She groans. We groan together as I open my mouth to welcome a more intimate kiss. Her tongue enters with such a possessive attitude I nearly swoon. She is staking her claim on Terra Andrea, newly conquered. Yes, I am hers. I feel her other hand pushing my shoulder so that we can lie on the lounge while she continues her loving invasion. Miranda leans into me so closely I can feel her necklace resting on my collarbone. Her breasts press into my chest as her fingers pull my pelvis up to fit snuggly into the curve of her waist. Good God! I become lost in Miranda's appetite, knowing I will not refuse her anything today. She whispers in my ear. I fear I must be dreaming.


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4

I whisper words of love into Andrea's ear. I did not mean to declare myself so plainly. Even after all I have just confessed, I have been careful not to actually reveal my love. Yet after feeling her desire through such enticing kisses, after feeling her body shivering against mine, after seeing such strong emotion blot her chocolate eyes, I can no longer keep the truth from her. I love her. I do not want to let her go. "Stay with me," I breathe as I deliver kisses down Andrea's extended throat. She moans her consent. It is a defining moment. I feel her hands mapping my back as I continue to taste her neck, her ear, her cheek. I return to soft lips, now swollen and chapped to an appealing plum red, and pay them the homage they deserve. I have dreamt of taking Andrea into my arms, of communicating my love for her without using awkward, impotent words. In one such dream we were attending a charity event. I walked over to her and said, "It's time that we met. Call me Miranda." As she looked at me in surprise, I swooped in to kiss her sweet mouth. I plundered it with my tongue, determined to make sure she understood I intended to know her in every way. This is better than that dream. Andrea, in my arms, kissing me back, I nearly explode as overwhelming emotions cause me to hold her closer, squeeze her tighter, kiss her more passionately. I whisper words of love into Andrea's ear.

To some our bond may seem strange. Outsiders might wonder why we must remain in each other's lives, why Andrea is so essential to my happiness, why she feels any affection for someone who treated her so poorly. We know, though, don't we, Andrea? We know the truth. We know that when our eyes first met so long ago, we forged a connection that would not be undone. Tested, yes. But never broken. The "what" was never in question, just the "how." We are meant to be together. In just the way we are now. Just as we always shall be. I made the mistake of worrying about the details. I made the mistake of trying to control an aspect of my life that cannot be controlled. This was a hard lesson for me, the woman who commands all aspects within her world—or at least tries damn hard to. I now know that I must rely on this bond even though I am unable to explain it. I had denied myself, and her, for too long. Finally, finally when I realized what I needed, everything fell into place. I made the decision to keep Andrea in my life, and she appeared before me. Fate. Kismet. Synchronicity. Destiny. Use whatever label seems appropriate. She is here. She feels the bond as strongly as I do. We do not need to explain ourselves, certainly not to each other. To some our bond may seem strange.

"Don't let me go." These words resonate through my soul, echo through the air, tremble through my body. I will never let her go. Doesn't she know that? I let her leave once before. I have never been the same. It is only now I feel alive. I gaze into Andrea's expressive eyes seeing the insecurity, the fear. I kiss them reverently as I whisper promises of a life spent together. Reiterating my love, reassuring my Andrea. This is one of the few instances where I do not mind repeating myself. In fact, I will tell her over and over so she will never doubt it. I hold her tightly, smelling her silky hair. Honey. Ginger. A hint of vanilla. Suddenly I feel quite ravenous. I stand up, feeling cold without the feel of her body under mine. I extend my hand to help her rise. Holding hers tightly, I lead my young love to the master suite and lay her down like the most fragile, precious gift. With every stroke, every taste, every moan I attempt to convey my feelings. And then I whisper my own request. "Don't let me go."

Our bodies intertwined represent my feelings well. I have never made love to another the way I have with Andrea. Sweet, passionate Andrea. I have always held back parts of myself, always controlled where I was touched and how I was touched. I let all such constrictions go in the face of her obvious affection. Andrea arouses my desire to experience such intimacy through her eyes, not mine. No longer is this an activity I indulge to retain control over another or to have my needs met. I want only to please her, to show her how much I cherish her. In doing so, I am well satisfied. And here we lie in each others' arms catching our breath, staring in awe, wanting to be even closer. Andrea turns me over gently and surrounds me with her arms, her legs, her body, her head resting perfectly in the dip of my neck and shoulder. She speaks of her love, how she has loved me for so long but despaired in ever gaining mine. I choke on missed opportunities. She is here now, though. "If it weren't too early, I would ask you to marry me. I never want to be without you again," I whisper while running my fingers lightly over her forearm, tucked so snugly under my breasts. I know this is out of character for me. I know I normally proceed slowly when it comes to my emotions. Yet look at how empty my life was before today. It was only my impetuous decision to appear in front of Andrea's workplace that changed the path of my life. Changed my reality. How stupid would I be to ignore the significance of this day? How stupid would I be not to grasp onto this wonderful woman with both hands and hold her tightly? So, I am. I must. I feel her body enfold mine even more, a cocoon of love as she tells me she would say yes. I sigh and smile. Our bodies, intertwined, represent my feelings well.

We are fortunate that fate has stepped in. Although I would never admit it to anyone other than Andrea, I have accepted that something more than my will has actualized today's events. I feel as if we have played out various scenarios while attempting to navigate to this point. The machinations of a larger power leave a lingering sense of magic in the air. When our lips first met, I recognized the taste of her. Dreams may not provide all the sensory data reality does, but they had left hints of what could be. I am open to the younger woman in ways I never thought possible. I have no secrets, nor any desire to withhold any aspect of my life from her. Someday we will look back on this day, wondering how each moment combined in such a particular way. I turn in her arms and push up to crush bruised lips. Suspended above her, I feel our breasts brushing provocatively as our bodies begin moving to a special rhythm only we know. I do not restrain the smile that bursts forward as our lips part. Why would I wish to? We are fortunate that fate has stepped in.

We talk well into the night. I realize I have wanted to share so much with this girl. Not just the events of _Runway_ or my divorce or my children, although I do update her when she requests, but also my observations of the world, my background, my hopes and fears, my most closely-guarded secrets; I tell her everything. I listen as she answers my questions, too—I am playing for keeps. I know she is aware of how hard it is for me to reveal myself in this way. Not so hard while in her arms, though. Not so traumatic. Not so dangerous. Of course I am not so naïve as to believe we will never disagree. However this is the first time I am willing to look beyond complications, beyond age, experience, career. As long as I have this amazing woman by my side, I can face all the minutiae others find so important. So we plan for our future as we enjoy today. We talk well into the night.

I know what I must do. Fatigue has overtaken my young lover, and here I watch her, afraid she will disappear once I close my own eyes. It is a silly fear. I handed her my heart, and she accepted. More than that, she gave me hers for safekeeping. She may not entirely believe it is safe with me, but I will prove her wrong. I was serious about marrying her. Time will serve us well as each day she learns more about me. She will learn that I do truly love her, that I intend to build a life through which we will live our dreams. I will treasure each day, saturated with the wealth of color swirling around her. Here I am, planning in poetry. I smile, amused by how excited I am. If others only knew the inner workings of my mind. How stunned they would be. Not my Andrea, though. She knows me well. In turn, I intend to learn all her secrets, all her desires, and all her needs so I can make her happy, bring her as much joy as she has given to me. And tomorrow and the morrow and on and on and on, so shall I live this sacred life of bliss and wonder with my love. I will ensure it. I know what I must do.


	5. Epilogue

Epilogue

I slow to a stop when I see her face. She has just stepped out of her car and now watches me with an inscrutable look. I glance toward the front door of the _Mirror_ and sigh. I guess I won't be going to work. I should be used to this by now. Not that I mind being whisked away by a gorgeous woman. Particularly this gorgeous one. I hear her well-known "glacial pace" comment and hasten to enter the back seat. I have experienced this sequence of events hundreds of times. Each time presents me with another opportunity to get closer to her. We drive in silence to the townhouse. I have no need to ask for our destination since I already know. I follow Miranda into the study, barely holding back my smile as she reaches for my hand. As Miranda confesses her desires to me I feel awash in relief, hope, and joy. I always feel this way. It doesn't matter how many times I hear her words. She lifts my hand to her lips and kisses the ring reverently. My wedding ring. The one she gave me when she proposed two years ago today. I begin to speak of my love for her. I slow to a stop when I see her face.

I kiss my wife as if for the first time. For a long time no one knew of our relationship. We married in a private, secluded, some might claim secret, ceremony in Connecticut. The girls were with us but no one else. We had no desire to become a spectacle. Not that we are ashamed—good God, no. We cherish our connection and take pains to protect it. We always shall, knowing how our lives have braided together so mystically. Our first night together I feared I would awake alone in my own bed. Instead I felt her head nestled into my neck and cried in relief. She awoke startled, demanding to know what troubled me. She would not be deterred by weak excuses or pleas to let it be. I chose not to tell her my fantastic tale. Instead I told her how I'd feared to have dreamt all that occurred between us since I had dreamt of holding her in my arms for such a long time. To wake up holding her had overwhelmed me. I confessed my determination to find a way into her heart. I admitted how carefully I had laid plans to cross her path or to somehow find a way to see her. I told her all these secrets and so many others, and she has guarded them fiercely, just as I have protected the secrets she has revealed to me. We reaffirmed our bond late into the morning, and I count myself blessed for all the chances we'd been given through some benevolent being. Since then we have become quite inseparable. Every thought and dream, we share. If anyone could see into our lives, they would be shocked by the strength of our love. Fortune shined upon us on a seemingly normal day. Our hearts pledged themselves to the other. The repeated day gave us the time needed to clear away fear and false moves. Although the world may not have the liberty to observe us behind closed doors, they certainly speculate as to how fortunate Miranda is to have me, and how interesting it is that I chose her. I cannot help but chuckle since I know I am the fortunate wife, even while Miranda claims she holds that honor. I kiss my wife as if for the first time.

The End.


End file.
